


see no evil

by Ladoga



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, Beating, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, OC narrator - Freeform, Painful Anal Sex, Plug Anal, Sauron is mean, Second Person Narrator, Spikes where no spikes should go, Torture, gangrape, is there a tag for 'sex toys but horrible', metal butt plugs at that, nameless narrator - Freeform, slave labor, some other stuff where it shouldn't go, unhygenic penetration, watched sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 08:48:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14589369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladoga/pseuds/Ladoga
Summary: "You’ve mostly gotten used to the Valinor elf."





	see no evil

**Author's Note:**

> (Why are Butt Plugs and Anal Plug different tags??)
> 
> Inspiration credit to [A Wire Crown](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4125663) for the 'outside watching narrator' thing.
> 
> So I was thinking about that, and then about plug type things, and my brain wasn't really going for it, and then I had the thought 'but what if they're iron' and then my brain did go for that.

You’ve mostly gotten used to the Valinor elf. 

He doesn’t try to call attention to himself - tries the opposite, really - but he’s been working near you, intermittently, and you notice him. 

At work he’s not really remarkable - labors quietly, head mostly down. More attention from the orc overseers - you cringe away, reflexively, when they come by, but if anything they care  _ less _ for you. Him they knock down without preamble, take their whips and truncheons to however diligently he works. (You try not to look too hard, not to think too hard. ‘What will it hurt’ is gut-deep terror, here, and - what good will it do.)

When work pauses (sometimes when it doesn’t) - well, you could say it with the same words. ‘More attention’. He keeps his head down still, when they come to knock him down again or drag him off. Comes back with the ground’s imprint on his knees, marks of hands and other things on him. Sometimes they don’t bother, take him right there, opening breeches and shoving him down. (You try not to look.)

 

He’s limping more than usual, today. That, you’ve also gotten used to about him - have seen the lash marks on his feet, and you don’t imagine the orcs get  _ more _ gentle when they take him out of sight. But this day, you notice. The orcs come for him at a break, and you’re used to the sounds from behind the stone heap, but if habituation helps you try not to listen at all, then it inverts on that when the sounds turn to what you’ve not heard before.

_ “-no- _ ” - and the sounds of struggle, struggle-against and not just the one-sided brutality, even down in the depths here elf-hearing and what you have seen and heard and - you can hear the difference. And - he never struggles, never have you seen it from him, not against holds or a whip or punishment he hardly earned, not fingers in his hair taking him forward.

Against what should maybe be your better judgement, you find yourself at the stone heap, around it, enough, you think, to see and not be seen -

He’s on the ground. He  _ was _ fighting before, you can see, but he’s pinned now, orcs holding him down and the signs of hard blows patterning his body where you can see it. His tunic is shoved up to his waist, and below it another orc has hands on his buttocks, holding and spreading at once.

They haven’t stopped his mouth up. Held still, he tries to turn his head back to them, twisting as far as their grasp lets him.

“Please, my lord has said-” Another blow, not like that’s a surprise.

“Well then, his lordship can take it up with you, won’t he.  _ We _ didn’t get different orders, mm?” He stops struggling, in that all-at-once way of knowing it for futile and worse than.

“Please - “ The orc slaps him again. 

“There’s one thing you open your mouth for here, elf, and  _ running _ your mouth’s not it.” You know what you’re expecting next - the position doesn’t leave much to be less than obvious - but against your expectation it’s a finger that the orc thrusts between his cheeks. And - tugs. 

The elf had tucked his face into the ground when he fell silent, and now he screams into his arm. In a moment you can see why; the orc behind him lifts his hand and comes out with - 

It looks something like an iron egg, elongated more and with a loop on the end the orc now holds. But not like an egg, it isn’t smooth - at every side, dull iron spikes jut out like on a gate of Angband, draw your eyes on them in spite of you. (Behind the stone pile, you nearly stuff your own hand in your mouth, stifle down any sound of your own at a last moment.)

The elf is panting into the ground now, breath shaking. The orc holding the - that - dangles it in the air. “His lordship has a creative hand, mm?” 

“And fine work.” One of the other orcs bares teeth in a smile back.

“But you know, fighting so hard to keep it in you - I bet you miss it.” This orc’s grin is all for the elf on the ground, and his hand comes down again as he lines up the egg with the place he’d drawn it from. The elf must feel it there - his shoulders tense already, he buries his face harder in his arms. The orc pushes the egg in. The elf screams again.

In - withdraw, in - withdraw. The elf screams and sobs, jerks in their hold with what isn’t any kind of intention, this time. The egg comes away with bloody spikes. When it stops, finally - it feels like forever to  _ you _ \- the elf is trembling hard, lies almost boneless.

“Well fellas. I think it’s our turn.”

They do take turns. Switch out who’s holding him down (not that it looks like he even needs it, anymore) so they can all have a chance at him. The second to last one seems to notice the same thing you do.

“Come on, get your ass up here.” You’re not very sure the elf hears him. Gets a slap and the orc’s hand fisted in his hair. “You listening? Get your  _ ass _ up.” The elf whimpers - at the slap or the hand or the order or all of them or just his general lot, you don’t know - but after a moment moves, draws his knees under him with his legs spread (the orcs adjust their grips to let him), resettles his arms to balance on the other end. 

Another slap, and hands digging into his cheeks again, spreading him farther still. The elf bites off a cry. Doesn’t bite off the next one when the orc thrusts into him all at once, buries himself among the blood and the others’ aftermath, in what must have been so much worse than raw before they even started. Thrusts nearly push the elf forward, and you watch his thighs shake and tremble, tremors running all the way up his body to where his screams alternate with almost silent sobbing. 

The last one takes a turn when this one’s done, then some of them want another one, and some other takes the elf by the hair again, drags his head up. “Remind you what your mouth is good for.” They divide him between themselves, the one at his mouth groaning at a harder thrust from behind. “Yeah, just like that, do that again.”

When they’re finally done, the latest orc lines the egg up with him again. Another one stops him short. “Got a mind for an extra something.” The egg’d lain on the ground while they fucked the elf; you can see dirt sticking to it in places. Now the orc rolls it deliberately, across the ground and the bottom of the stone heap, a coating of grit and a few parts of something larger clinging to the surface when he picks it up again. “Now give it to him.”

They do. The screams are sharper than the iron; even muffled you can hear them all over again through the stone. 

They make him pick himself up, blows and slaps and shoves that seem about counterproductive, and you realize almost too late that you can’t  _ be _ here when they finally look away from him. Somehow you manage to plant your feet without tripping, get yourself back to the station before the call for no more lying about.

 

After another minute maybe, the Valinor elf comes back too. Limping worse again, dirt ground into his tunic and scratches from it crosshatching his skin, face tear-streaked. If you’re looking, you can notice the almost-suppressed trembling, jerks - at sounds, at his own movement - he must be fighting down. His tunic doesn’t reach far past his buttocks, doesn’t hide the blood down between his thighs. Quiet, and keeps his head down, and gets back to work.

(You try not to look.)

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I think it's kind of too late for that, narrator!~~
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (sidenote, does anyone know if there's an established tag/warning/something for 'penetration with dirty objects'?)


End file.
